


Sun's Coming Up

by xaccier



Series: dreamnotfound fics [11]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Comfort, Domestic Fluff, First Meetings, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, George is sick of not being able to sleep so dream helps him out, Insomnia, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, No Smut, Phone Calls, Promises, Sleepy Cuddles, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, dream's voice is calming, george can't sleep, kind of, sapnap is the funny friend, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:09:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29966883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaccier/pseuds/xaccier
Summary: “How did you fall asleep last time?” Dream says, voice laced with attentive curiosity. It warms George from the inside out. He swallows it down, throat gravelly.“I dunno,” he avoids, fingers tapping on the desk. It vibrates down his palm and up through his wrist. “Your voice, I guess.”It’s timid and hushed, but the confession is there. Heat pricks at his forehead, beading and clinging at his hairline.“Oh,” Dream says. A pause, and then, “oh."-four times george's insomnia is no match for dream's calming voice.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: dreamnotfound fics [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026964
Comments: 73
Kudos: 1009





	Sun's Coming Up

**Author's Note:**

> tooth rotting fluff because you all deserve it
> 
> twitter is @xaccier

_o n e_

George’s eyes sting.

Insomnia is a prick, George thinks. Days of seeing the sun rise through the curtains with a cotton pillow pulled over ringing ears, trying to drown out the sound of morning magpies while sleep just barely brushes the tips of his fingertips. It’s painful, and tonight is no different.

The leather seat is starting to rub against his forearms after staying sat for so long. Adhesive headphones stick to the side of his face, no doubt a dent in dark brown hair from the hours they’ve been glued on his head. The lights are switched off, George on the very edge of drowsiness, but streaks of orange pooling in through cracked blinds leads George to believe that the sun is already rising and there’s no time to sleep.

Dream and Sapnap chat on the line, George blinking slowly as he pulls his leg up to his chest. He rests his cheek on his knee. He can barely pay attention, but he knows that going to bed now will leave him frustrated as he watches the sun peak; it’s not worth it, and listening to his friends is a much better deal.

His eyes fall shut. Darkness cools his head for a minute, until his focus is brought to the discord call he’s silently sitting in.

“Is George asleep?” Sapnap asks. George cranes his eyes open. Suddenly the orange streaks are too bright.

He can hear Dream hum. “Probably. It’s late for him, right?”

George lets out a breath, sinking back into his chair. He can’t be bothered to reply, so the conversation is dropped, moving onto a different topic, and George lets himself wordlessly bask in the foreign accents of his friends.

After a while, discord clicks, and George registers it as someone leaving the call. He takes that as a sign to leave himself, forcing himself up to grasp onto his mouse.

“George?” Dream asks faintly. It’s loud in George’s fatigued ears, and he jolts violently, eyes unscrewing themselves. Tone softer, Dream says, “are you awake, George?”

George’s shoulders droop. Dream always talks to him like this when they’re alone— reserved, humourless, showered in care that is so _Dream_ that it _hurts._

Dream’s keyboard clicks in George’s ears, and he supposes that Dream is giving up on him, so he quickly rushes, “no, I’m still here.”

“Oh,” Dream says, surprised. “I thought you were asleep. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He doesn’t know why they’re apologising. Something hovers, waiting, perching, and George adds breathlessly, “couldn’t sleep.”

Dream hums again, and George leans into the cautious noise. It tickles his ear through the resting headphones, and he thinks for a moment that if he leans far enough into it, Dream will actually be whispering in his ear. His side hits the armrest.

“That’s okay,” Dream voices. It’s slow, careful, and George knows that he _knows._ He’s known George long enough to know. “That’s okay.”

George’s heart thumps once against his ribcage, and his head dips forward to rest back on his knee. Hiding behind the cloth, running away from Dream’s voice and care as though it will hurt him from across the ocean. He supposes that's not incorrect.

“Do you want me to leave?” George asks. The words rip through his lips before he can stop them, wincing at the shortage of filter. It’s late even for Dream, and George’s lack of sleep shouldn’t be a reason for him to ruin his sleep schedule too.

Dream refuses immediately. “Stay.”

A dangerous shiver runs down George’s spine despite his body temperature rising. Pinpricks of warmth trickle down his neck.

Quietly, he mutters back, “Okay.”

George lets himself melt back into his chair when Dream’s noisy keyboard starts back up again. There’s no pressure to talk, bathed in a comfortable silence that washes them slowly through the fleeting night. It’s calm, dark and comforting, and soon enough, George feels his eyelids flutter shut.

The next time Dream asks if he’s still awake, he isn’t able to answer. It’s astounding (and quite frankly embarrassing) how quickly he falls asleep listening to Dream’s offhand comments.

He wakes up the next morning with a sore neck and a dead arm, but the undereye bags are fading and his heart is beating with a determined rhythm that he hasn’t felt in a long time.

_t w o_

“George, you idiot! Give me my stuff back!” Dream says, but it’s half-hearted, tattered with fondness, and followed up with a breathy laugh. George’s cheeks lift.

“Fight me for it,” he says, rippling with mistaken confidence. He regrets it immediately as Dream pulls out his netherite, showing off the glowing purple in his offhand. George punches his avatar away sheepishly. “I was kidding.”

The server is abandoned at this time of night. Most of the members are sound asleep, huddled somewhere below heat-securing blankets or bundled up on couches with TV’s emitting soft songs, but for Dream and George, the day is barely starting. Somewhere far away, Sam is hacking at ores thirty blocks under, leaving the pair to themselves near the main areas.

“Sure you were,” Dream says, an eyeroll hidden between mellow vowels. There’s a pause when George tabs out to change his volume settings, before the sound of Dream punching him knocks through his headphones. George lets out an incorrigible noise, and Dream snorts with blatant amusement.

“Don’t, I’m tabbed out,” George presses. Dream promptly punches him again. “Seriously, Dream. I’m trying to higher you up.”

“My voice too quiet?” Dream asks, right as George pulls on the volume bar, so he winces into the sound and swiftly pulls it back down. “George?”

“No, you’re fine.” George tabs back in, giving Dream a click back before pulling out his trident and flying away through the nearest fountain. Dream doesn’t stir, so George circles back around and rests his avatar next to Dream’s.

“I could beat you in a fist fight,” Dream says unprompted.

George pulls a face, cheeks scrunching up. He pulls himself closer to the desk, wood rough beneath his fingertips. “Seriously?”

“Oh, one _hundred_ percent,” Dream replies easily, voice dripping with a challenging boldness that makes George falter, even for just a second.

“I dunno. I’m stronger than I look, Dream.”

“I doubt that,” Dream argues.

There’s a few minutes of silence that pass between the pair, words clinging to George’s tongue as the conversation sets in. His eyes wonder to Dream’s familiar green player, lying back in his chair.

“How have you been sleeping?” Dream asks suddenly. His words come out slightly rushed, as though he’s been waiting to speak up about it, and George feels betraying heat rise to his flushed cheekbones. _Where did that come from?_

He debates the easy answer. A quick, _‘I’ve been sleeping well, thanks,’_ would end the topic immediately, and they could go back to their familiar friendly banter, but George decides against it. Decides that Dream would want honesty. “I haven’t.”

Silence fills the call, and George drops his head onto the back of his chair. He shifts his legs uncomfortably, suddenly restless.

“You haven’t,” Dream repeats, “like, at all?”

“Not since I feel asleep on call with you,” George mutters. His hands raise to move his player, fingers itching for something to do. He digs down, collecting cobble and using the sticks in his inventory to craft a new set of stone tools despite the glimmering purple set in his hotbar. Dream’s character shuffles along the grass above him.

“That’s—”

“Unhealthy? Yeah, I know,” George mumbles. He can’t help the bite to it; he’s frustrated at his insomnia too. Dark circles line the underneath of his eyes once again, and his exhaustion is slowly chipping at his will to live. He knows it’s not healthy, but what is he supposed to do? Force Dream to stay on call with him every night until he falls asleep?

The thought is tempting, but it wouldn’t be fair on Dream.

“Sorry,” George says after a moment. “didn’t mean to snap. I’m just tired, I guess.”

More silence follows, and George is starting to despise his broken fan. Maybe he could’ve had it on in the background, drowning out the tension-heavy air and dragging his aching mind with it.

“How did you fall asleep last time?” Dream says, voice laced with attentive curiosity. It warms George from the inside out. He swallows it down, throat gravelly.

“I dunno,” he avoids, fingers tapping on the desk. It vibrates down his palm and up through his wrist. “Your voice, I guess.”

It’s timid and hushed, but the confession is there. Heat pricks at his forehead, beading and clinging at his hairline.

“Oh,” Dream says. A pause, and then, _“oh.”_

The smell of oldening cheese hangs in the air. It’s sweet, yet somehow bitter, and makes George feel sick.

“That’s it?” Dream asks, teetering the edge of confusion and barely crossing the line into mockery. George tenses. “Just my voice?”

George wonders what Dream looks like right now— fingers pressed against smooth keys, head tilted into the sound of George’s breathing, ankles crossed under the desk.

Golden eyes narrowed. Lips tugged up in a teasing grin.

Jawline shining under the light of his monitor.

George’s bottom lip catches between his teeth. “No.”

“Yeah, I’m sure, I’m sure,” Dream responds, voice dipping, cradling George between sleek taunts. “I can help you sleep, if you want.”

George’s lips part. _Really?_

“I’ll talk, and you can go lie in bed. Change to your phone if you want.”

_You’d do that for me?_

George’s socked feet brush the carpet as he pushes away from his desk. Silently, untrusting of his words, he slips into bed with his headphones still on and monitor roaring.

“Are you in bed?” Dream says.

George hums. He quickly remembers he’s no longer near his mic, so he shouts a muffled, “yes.”

“Okay,” Dream says. His voice is still so close, private in George’s ears and George’s ears alone. He sighs into the pillow, focus drifting to the polyester sheets and silky voice. “You know, we could meet up soon.”

Dream’s words aren’t original; they’ve had the conversation before. Many times, actually. Dream brings it up, tells George he’ll fly him to Florida, George laughs, and the conversation moves on.

Now, though, George feels fire drip down his spine at the words. There’s no joke, there’s no traces of humour, and George doesn’t know what to say.

So he doesn’t say anything.

“Maybe when you get here, it’ll be easier for you to sleep,” Dream says lowly. “You know… because I’ll be close by.”

George’s face heats immediately. _What does that mean, Dream?_

“I’ll soothe you to sleep.” Dream’s voice lightens for a minute, “sing you a lullaby.”

George would’ve laughed if his body wasn’t stuttering to sleep.

“I’ll give you a kiss goodnight,” Dream says. George can’t tell if he’s joking. _Would it be wrong to say that I hope you’re not?_ His voice slows to just above a whisper, “talk to you until you fall asleep next to me.”

George squeezes his eyes shut. _Do you mean that?_

“I mean it, George,” Dream says. George slips. “Just wait. When we meet up, then you’ll see.”

_t h r e e_

“One day left, Georgie!” Sapnap mocks in a high voice. It rumbles through George’s phone speaker, prickling with static. He lobs a scrunched hoodie into the open case.

“Yeah, it’s exciting,” George mocks back, raising his tone to match Sapnap’s. He hears Dream snort somewhere in the background, a cheating sense of pride welling up inside his chest at the sound.

“Yeah,” Sapnap says. He pauses. “By the end of tomorrow you’ll be with your boyfriend _in person.”_

Ignoring Sapnap’s comment, George’s heart flutters. _I’ll get to see them tomorrow._

_I’ll get to see Dream tomorrow._

“George, it’s late for you, right?”

George’s head lifts. _It’s 3:23am._

“Yeah, it’s like, 2am for you, right? 3am maybe?” Sapnap chimes.

In all honesty, he hadn’t even noticed. The curtains are pulled tight, the overhead light switched on, and the world he’s surrounded by (being, Sapnap and Dream, arguing, and the clicking of their keyboards as they battle it out in chess while George messily packs his bags) is completely awake. Not to mention, the nerves of meeting up with his internet best friends of years.

“It is,” George answers simply. He’s suddenly aware of how shattered he feels.

“Aw,” Sapnap’s crackling voice burns through his ear canals again. “Gogy is excited to meet us, he can’t even sleep.”

“Shut up, Sapnap,” George says. His tongue is irritated, but it’s laced with enough familiarity that he doesn’t need to bother apologising. “I’m hanging up.”

His thumb hovers over the ‘end call’ button on his lit-up phone for barely a second, before Sapnap and Dream’s voices have dissipated, and he’s left alone in the comfort of his empty bedroom.

It’s strange, being alone. Even half way across the world, George is so used to having Sapnap and Dream’s attention twenty-four-seven.

He doesn’t even have the chance to miss it, because his phone vibrates with another incoming call.

George swiftly snaps his case shut, zip catching between in his palm as he wrenches it closed. He answers the call.

“Hello?” he asks, not bothering to check the contact name as he flops down onto his bed. Feathery comfort instantly envelopes him. Cracks in chipped ceiling paint are visible as he stares up, light searing into his eyes. He blinks and flips onto his side.

“Hi.” Dream’s voice filters through, smoother now that his phone is off speaker. It strokes the side of his face. “You going to bed now?”

“I guess,” George sighs, tucking his phone in between his ear and pillow. He pulls the blue covers up to his waist.

“You want me to stay on call?” Dream asks. “I’m not busy, so…”

George’s heart squeezes softly. His hand grips at the cotton sheets.

_You’re too nice to me, Dream._

“If you don’t mind.” George can’t stop himself. He’s selfish. “Please.”

“Of course.”

Dream wastes no hesitation, setting off on a rant about future video ideas, and George just listens. He basks peacefully in the fluent sentences— and even when Dream stutters. When he trips over his words and opts to start the sentence again, George basks. When his words merge together because his mouth can’t keep up with his brain, George basks. Hearing his voice is enough.

“I wonder,” George interrupts, sleepiness clouding the corners of his eyes and his judgement. Dream quiets. “If it’ll be this easy tomorrow. When we’re together.”

“Why wouldn’t it?” slow, careful, _caring._ Too much. George sucks in a breath of sobriety.

“I dunno. It’ll be different in person, right?” George asks, feeling winded. _I hope it’s not._

Dream laughs. It dances in George’s ear. He can feel his pulse drumming alongside it.

“I don’t think so,” Dream says, voice raising. _His honest voice._ “Who knows? All I know is that I can’t wait to see you.”

Sleep trickles into George’s bloodstream. His features dull, easing further into the mattress. “Too bad. You have to wait.”

Dream smiles. George can’t see it, but he can feel it in his words, “only one more day.”

George exhales. His ribcage thumps beneath nimble fingers, repeatedly, relentlessly, repeating, _“only one more day,”_ before he’s out like a light.

_f o u r_

George’s mind is tired. His thoughts are slow, eyes bleary, and yet his body stays achingly awake. His bones creak, the day’s exhaustion weighing him down after hours of excited buzzing.

Legs carry him up the stairs, but he barely registers them as his own. His feet feel numb against beige carpet. Hair in his eyes, hoodie hugging him tightly, home foreign under his gaze— he feels strangely uncomfortable.

When he lies in his new bed— deep somewhere in Dream’s home— for the first time, he feels sick. The insomnia kicks in as soon as his eyes flutter shut, and he knows he’s getting no sleep tonight.

He lies there for a while. His thoughts wonder to rainy days and sun streaking through white blinds into stinging eyes. He thinks of nights spent sat at his desk, legs crumpled in painful positions until his brain is singed to death. He thinks of golden skin, smooth voices, and a night well rested—

_Where are you?_

“You said it wouldn’t be different, right?” George mumbles to himself, and promptly scoffs. _What am I doing? Talking to myself, over what?_

“What’s so funny?”

George’s head snaps towards the door, neck cracking. Dream stands, in all his _godforsaken_ glory, in the doorframe. Arms raised, hands hooked on the top of the doorframe, and he leans forward just enough that George’s ceiling light spills over his features. Sunkissed skin glows; a sun in the midst of the darkness. Or something like that.

“Dream!” George says, startled. His eyebrows pinch together. “I thought you and Sapnap were playing chess?”

Dream shrugs. The cloth around his shoulders lift, barely exposing freckled collarbones. George swallows. He scrambles into a sitting position as Dream steps inside his room. “I was.”

George’s chest heaves as he breathes in. “Then why are you here?”

Dream laughs— the dumb wheeze laugh that scratches the pinch below his heart, the one that makes his lips involuntarily tug up in a smile, the one that lightens his mood no matter what he’s feeling.

Even now. He doesn’t feel sick anymore.

The bed dips under Dream’s weight.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Dream smiles, freckles bunching together across his cheekbones. George’s mind stutters. “I’ll soothe you to sleep.”

Dream’s hand reaches up to presses against George’s shoulder. He’s lowered down, back hitting the bed and hair fluffing out against the navy pillow.

“Sing you a lullaby.”

His voice is calming. It’s a lullaby in and of itself. Dream’s hand disconnects from George’s shoulder, leaving a warm tingling in its wake.

George knows what comes next. He remembers the words clearly, from the first time Dream uttered them. George shuffles closer to him, pinching his black shirt between his index and thumb. The tiniest bit of contact is enough to set him ablaze.

“Kiss you goodnight.”

He knew it was coming, and yet a rosy flourish hits him full force. He hides his face in the sheets, gripping Dream’s shirt in his fist.

He feels Dream edge closer. His body radiates warmth against George’s pale skin.

He feels an arm snake down past his shoulders and rest near his waist.

“Talk to you until you fall asleep next to me.”

_Oh. Next to you._

Dream’s hand connects with his waist. George lets out the air in his lungs. He cracks open an eye.

Dream’s hand rakes through his hair at that moment, and he lets his eyes close again.

“Is that okay with you?” Dream asks. Sincere, mindful, and if George didn’t know better, he would say wary.

George lifts a heavy arm— _I blame it on the drowsiness—_ and drapes it over Dream’s stomach. He’s close, now, closer than he’s ever been before (except for their hug in the airport, which was a moment George will never forget) and he can’t get enough.

Dream smells like autumn. He smells like rainy days and sun streaking through white blinds, but it’s warm. It’s warm, and unhurried, and home.

Dream is home.

“Yes,” George says. He feels Dream relax under his arm. The hand around his waist curls into the material of his hoodie. It’s bright in his room, but it’s not the first time he’s fallen asleep with the light on. His face pushes into Dream’s side, shielding his eyes. He hopes Dream can get some rest too.

George feels him shift. His eyes are too heavy to look. He doesn’t have to.

Featherweight lips press soundly into his hair. Sleep consumes him.

“Goodnight, George.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! consider leaving a comment i crave validation pls
> 
> hope you enjoyed :]
> 
> my twitter is @xaccier :]


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